


Family Don't End With Blood

by Honeythief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining Sam, Season/Series 02, Top Sam, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeythief/pseuds/Honeythief
Summary: Unrequited love only looks good in movies and novels. When Dean finds out that Sam's been secretly in love with him, he doesn't jump into his arms and yell "me too". No, Dean's utterly horrified.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a word of warning - nothing revolutionary here, just another take on a theme that has been done many times in many ways before. The fic tries to follow the canon events from season 2.  
> Still, it's something I enjoyed writing and hope it's something you'll enjoy reading, too! :)  
> Updates twice a week.
> 
> PS: Tagged Non-con just to be safe.

Stench of cigarettes and spilled beer. Dim lights, stale air. A low hum of spiritless conversations and cheesy rock ballads from the 80's all mingle together to create a perfectly suicidal ambiance, making Sam's nose wrinkle in disgust the moment he steps inside the bar. A couple of customers lift their heads upon his entrance, scan him briefly with disinterest and go right back to wasting their lives on gambling, alcohol and self-pity. The hunter's eyes skim quickly over the crowd in search of a familiar silhouette, clad in a brown, leather jacket. Predictably enough, he finds his brother sprawled leisurely on a bar stool, sipping beer and chatting up the bartender with a lewd grin on his face. One look at her is enough to tell she's the only reason this dump has so many customers.

Sam doesn't wave or attempt to announce his presence to Dean in any way. He chooses to install himself by a table at the farthest corner of the room, peaceful yet still providing a strategic view of his brother's profile. Pleased with the outcome, he withdraws all his research indispensables and gets to work over their current case, allowing himself an occasional peek or two in Dean's direction.

The hunter sighs when the job fails to keep his attention. He likes himself a good challenge, not a small-town routine gig he can figure out in his sleep. Watching his brother's sinful smile is much more absorbing, he settles.

A few feet away, the other Winchester finds himself equally absorbed by the bartender's (Lucy? Lily?) teasing cleavage and red, rousing shade of lipstick. He might also feel remotely guilty about loafing around while Sam was out there actually working on their case. In other words, the only useful information he's managed to gather was the ending hour of Lucy/Lily's shift. And it was ending soon.

They stop exchanging suggestive looks so she can serve the rest of the riffraff with a reluctant roll of her gray eyes. Dean takes a sip of his diluted beer, holds back a wince and checks his cell for sassy messages from his little brother. Nothing. As he wonders whatever Sam might be up to at the moment, Lucy/Lily returns with a mysterious smile lingering on her lips.

"What?" he asks with a smirk of his own.

"Not much. You have a fan," she chuckles. "Been staring at you with dreamy eyes for a while now."

"I'm sure your eyes are way dreamier," Dean winks, using the opportunity to score a cheap pick-up line.

Lucy/Lily just snorts. "Left corner, right by the wall, dude with books and a laptop."

Dean turns obediently, eyes widening as soon as he identifies the described person as his own brother. Sam raises his hand in acknowledgement, looking somewhat embarrassed, as though he's been caught with a handful of skin mags.

"What the fuck, dude?" Dean mouths at him across the sea of bar tables. The other just shrugs, points at his laptop, and gives him a thumbs-up.

Dean is, by all means, baffled - they were yet to crack the case, yet to find a motel to crash overnight, and somehow that still looked like a "go ahead, hook up with the hot bartender" kind of permission. Not that he'd complain.

"Nah, it's just Sammy, my lil' brother," he explains, forcing another sip of the horrendous liquor down his throat. How can beer even be bad? Why would anyone want to spoil _beer_ , of all things? It was a crime against humanity, no less.

Lucy/Lily whistles quietly. "Wow. Must be weird," she muses, reaching to wipe a stubbornly dirty glass.

"Weird how?"

"Look, hon, brother or not, the guy wants to bend you over. Trust me, I've seen that look more times than I cared to count." She finally gives up on the wretched glass, fills it with cheap whiskey and hands over to a miserable-looking guy sitting right next to Dean. The man accepts it gratefully and squeezes his drink in both hands like a treasure. "So, like I said, it must be weird."

The remark strikes the green-eyed hunter as amusingly _odd_ , and in his line of work, he hardly finds anything odd anymore. Not after hearing all manner of crap about angels, aliens, killer trucks and what have you.

"Yeah, well, we're close, but not that kind of close, believe me," he laughs, and it sounds only halfway forced. "We've been through a lot together is all." He greets the last sip with unspeakable relief and pushes his empty mug across the counter, the movement coming out much more dashing than he intended.

"Seems like _Sammy_ wants to go through so much more," the bartender asserts, clicking her tongue.

Dean doesn't answer for a while, feeling more pissed than amused this time around. People who mistake them for a gay couple normally tend to get the message when told they're brothers.

"I don't know about yours, but in my family we don't bend each other over, babe."

Sweet Lucy/Lily doesn't appear offended. She pouts her lips and tosses her long, shiny hair back, eliciting a collective sigh of wonder from attentive admirers.

"Suit yourself. Anyways, my shift's over. If you're looking for a hook-up, you know where to find one now." With that, she winks playfully and turns around to march away. Dean Winchester's eyes follow her trail in thoughtful disappointment, as if seeking guidance in those swaying hips. "Your loss," they seem to say. Nice hips indeed, yet somehow Dean can't be bothered to regret watching them leave, not when he has to deal with the mental image of "being bent over" by his little brother. It's something he'd rather never think about, just like he'd rather never drink local swill again, thank you very much.

He honors his emptied mug with a last, disdainful look and slides off the tattered stool to swerve towards "left side, right by the wall, dude with books and a laptop".

"Pack your toys, Sammy. We're leaving."

"What? Why? What about your... friend?" Sam sounds hopeful. Or does he? God, why would he sound hopeful?

"Dude, it's a transvestite. Now excuse me while I run for the hills, okay?"

Poor Lucy/Lily actually looked perfectly feminine, but Sam doesn't question, he just scoffs in... what, relief? Why would he be relieved? The elder Winchester cringes slightly as his younger counterpart gathers his stuff from the table.

"Anyhow, I talked with the victim's family, you?" Sam asks, flinging his full bag over the shoulder.

"Me? I got left feeling sexually frustrated and mentally disturbed at the same time. Not to mention, I drank the worst beer in the entire States. Can we go?"

As the brothers leave, Lucy/Lily flashes a filthy grin in their direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during episode 14 "Born Under a Bad Sign".

"Boy. You're really carrying the torch for him, aren't you?"

She doesn't see the question coming. She barely knows the man in front of her, yet the seemingly innocent inquiry sounds oddly blasphemous coming from his mouth. Paired with the squinty-eyed, penetrating look he's giving her, it paints an altogether painfully distorted picture of the person she thought Sam Winchester was. She can only scoff in disbelief.

"I'll take that as a yes." He has the audacity to smirk at her like that - like Sam Winchester never smirks.

"It's too bad," Sam-not-Sam drawls. Maybe he's high? "Cause see, Dean likes you, sure, but not in the way you'd want. Maybe as kind of a little sister, but romance... that's just out of the question."

"Look who's talking, Sam," she snaps, unthinking. "You're _actually_ his little brother, not just 'kind of'. What's really out of the question here?"

Sam-not-Sam instantly drops the smirk, loses the venomous spark in his eyes. It's a short-lived victory, if any at all, seeing as the next thing he does is throw his head back and laugh, briefly but maniacally. Jo tries to think of any drugs that turn people into psychopaths.

"Oh. Ouch. That is a low blow, Jo. How'd you know?"

She's silent (and a little nauseous), staring back with determination into maybe-Sam's sneering face. Somehow, she just knows. The way Sam looks at Dean must resemble her own.

"Just a hunch, then? Woman's intuition? Lucky guess?" He reaches for the hand she'd laid on the bar counter, sending a repulsive shiver down her spine. His fingers are icy-cold.

"You're sick," Jo hisses, trying to pry her palm free from not-Sam's (she's almost sure by now) steel grip.

"Mmm, true. And jealous. Dean's mine, you know."

The hunter's dark voice is the last thing she registers before everything turns black.

+++

"I know that demons lie, but do they ever tell the truth, too?" Jo asks carefully, wrapping a bandage around Dean's injured shoulder.

"Sometimes, I guess. Especially if they know it'll mess with your head. Why do you ask?"

Jo can sense anxiety layering the hunter's patient reply, masked behind superficially cool demeanor. He just really needs to find his brother, she figures.

"Did it try messing with yours?"

"And succeeded," he hisses when the blonde accidentally squashes his wound, jaw clenching in pain. "It said—"

"—that Sam's in love with you?" Jo finishes the sentence in a heartbeat, without any prior consultation with her brain. Her eyes flutter up, blinking rapidly. Dean nearly drops the bottle of whiskey he'd been squeezing protectively all this time. They look at each other for a good moment of stupefied silence. The hunter's lips attempt to shape and form around a word, a stellar example of how a person can look both stupid and attractive at the same time. All he ultimately does is release his breath in resignation.

"I'm sorry, it's none of my business," Jo hastily resumes her previous task. She squeezes his injured arm pretty hard this time, but Dean doesn't even flinch.

"You think it could be true?" he lifts his head and asks in a deadpan voice. _Deny it, deny it_ \- his eyes seem to plead, mouth trembling.

"I know it is," she chokes out, simply unable to lie through her teeth, not while peering into those honest, green eyes. She watches them fill with hurt and incredulity. It's nearly as fascinating as it is heartbreaking.

I'll call you later, Dean tells her on his way out.


	3. Chapter 3

Meg's words are like fuel for his pulsing headache, ringing and ringing loud in his ears as he sits there squatted under the wall like a scared puppy, gripping at his bleeding shoulder. When the demon bitch finally smokes out of his brother with an inhuman shriek that reverberates through his skull in a painful loop, the hunter still doesn't feel like it's the end of today's nightmare. What he does feel like, is shit. How he looks like is probably shit, too - Dean doesn't need a mirror to make that particular assessment.

Bobby more or less fixes his torn shoulder and hands him a cold compress for his bruised face. His eyes jump from one Winchester to the other, finally filling with recognition after a few awkward seconds of mutual silence.

"I suddenly feel this uncontrollable need to take a half hour walk," he grumbles, sweeping his jacket from the hanger. "You boys rest. And talk." With that, he slams the front doors shut behind him, causing the silence to grow a thousand-fold more deafening. Dean browses through his dialogue options for the umpteenth time this evening, only to eventually settle for being at loss for words. He rummages inside his jacket to find the painkillers that Jo gave him and swallows down all three.

Sam, in turn, feels as if he's being smashed by two gigantic boulders at the same time. He's not even sure which aggravates him more - the "I killed an innocent man" or the "Dean found out". He barely registers Bobby leaving, barely notices the passing time - he just sits there, weighed down by the simultaneous burden of his own actions and his own feelings, torn between guilt and mortification. Somewhere in this dreadful mix he manages to find the incentive to explain himself.

"Dean," he begins tentatively after what seemed like and might have been an hour. "You know that demons lie."

Looking for the right thing to say in a situation so utterly wrong resembled being sentenced to death by crossing a mine field. Sam is accompanied by the impression that no matter how carefully he strides, he's still bound to end up blown into pieces, and it's the worst fucking feeling in the entire world.

"I feel like little brothers lie just as much, Sam." Dean's voice is a little rasped, but otherwise calm.

The moment Sam opens his mouth to defend his honor as a little brother, he's immediately interrupted by the screeching sound of Dean's chair dragging across the floor.

"How long?"

"Dean—"

"I asked how long!"

Sam gulps, staring at his feet. "Long," he finally says.

"Long, huh? Funny, how I was the only one to never notice. Jo sure did. Even a goddamn bartender could see it." The elder of brothers shakes his head and turns to face the other, his tone gaining in impatience. The way he starts pacing back and forth around their surrogate father's kitchen points to beginnings of anger.

Anger? Anger's good. Sam isn't sure about disappointment, but anger he can handle. How about he adds a little fuel to the fire, just to watch it all burn already?

"Just say it, Dean, spill it out! Let's get this over with. You hate me now? I disgust you, is that it? Come on, just fucking say it already!"

Sam spits up all of his bitterness, refusing to cower like a beat dog. His anger resurfaces at last, so much stronger from being bottled up this entire time, stashed deep underneath the rest of his emotional baggage. He's fairly positive he couldn't bear any more guilt, anyway, so why not unload some on Dean while they're at it? A shouting fest and a few more punches might just be the thing to alleviate some of that burning pain of self-loathing that's been mercilessly drilling a pit in his stomach ever since he regained control of his body.

"I don't hate YOU, moron, I hate that you want to fuck me! There, I said it, satisfied? _Jesus_ ," Dean recoils, repulsed by how wrong and vulgar the words sound once said out-loud. They leave a bad aftertaste in his mouth, like an exceptionally foul expletive. He allows them to hang in the air for a while, properly settle in. The verbal acknowledgement makes it official, makes it so much more real than it was just ten minutes ago. And it only seems to gain him a new rush of excruciating headache.

"Oh yeah, I bet that's real awful for you, Dean! Being stuck not only with some psychic-freak-whatever, but also a pervert with a brother complex! My condolences!"

"Well thank you Sam for your choice of words, couldn't have put it better myself!" Dean yells back, twice as angrily. "I'm sorry, but this is just sick, Sam! What would dad say, huh? It's like dancing on his fucking grave!"

"Right, that's it! It's all cause I wanna piss dad off even when he's dead! That is exactly my plan, you've figured me all out! You think I'm happy about it?! I'd rather fall in love with a goddamn wendigo!"

"Jesus," they turn to see Bobby standing in the doorway, a bag of groceries dangling miserably from his hand. "I left you idjits to have a heart-to-heart, not a bloody catfight! Your damn shouting can be heard from space!"

Dean lets out a frustrated sigh, feebly attempting to calm down his wrecked nerves. "Sorry, Bobby. We'll go," he runs a hand through his messy hair, fumbling for the keys to the Impala.

"The hell you are, son! You're not driving in this state! The last thing I need right now is another dead Winchester! Now, you're staying here. Just get your asses in separate rooms, got it? God forbid." The senior hunter doesn't even make the effort of unpacking his groceries before he walks away towards the study, swearing under his breath.

Sam and Dean do little else besides exchanging grim looks.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleeping in the panic room can now happily join Dean's list of least favorite things ever - even though there wasn't much of actual sleeping involved. Lots of fidgeting and struggling to calm his restless mind, instead. Not to mention, the blanket he'd snatched proved definitely unsuitable in terms of protection against the unpleasant chill of Bobby's cellar. To put it simply, it was cold as fuck.

Dean gathers himself from the uncomfortable bedding with a pathetic grunt; if he thought he felt like shit yesterday, a steaming pile of dung was how he'd describe his overall well-being this particular morning. Bruises, above all - new and old, an entire color pallet of them, varying in size and intensity. Some from being tossed around, some from the hard, cement floor, and some others a simple courtesy of Meg's fist. His battered shoulder will be put out of service for a good couple of days at least, and in the meantime he'll be lucky not to develop a drug addiction as the very first thing he does is gobble down a few pills. His exhausted, protein-deprived body barely supports itself on two wobbly legs, demanding coffee and breakfast. Lastly, the hunter's still not exactly at peace with discovering his brother's incestuous preferences. Not at all. He still can't get Meg's words out of his head, especially the more obscene parts of Sam's imagination she'd managed to share before they sent her ass to hell.

_Wanna guess what lil' Sammy here thinks about before he goes to sleep? You, Dean-o. Well, to be precise, specific parts of you and what he'd do to you if he could. And boy, is that a long list, I'm almost blushing! Well, let's see... mostly, he just wants you down on your knees, you know? Using that pretty, cock-sucking mouth of yours. Come on, don't look at me like that, I'm just quoting here! Oh, and let's not forget the best part! How he'd want to push you down on all fours and just screw you like an ordinary slut._

"You look like crap," Bobby says as a form of "good morning" as soon as he enters the kitchen.

"Not exactly newsflash here, Bobby," Dean retorts with a roll of his eyes, helping himself to a cup of blissfully black coffee.

"You're welcome, and I mean it. You could really use some beauty sleep."

Instead of answering, Dean tries to peer inside the library where Sam should be holed up on the couch.

"Looks like I'm not the only one," the hunter scoffs in-between two large sips of the warm liquid, slowly bringing his exhausted body back to life.

"He got up at four and locked himself in the bathroom. Been there a full hour now," Bobby shakes his head and goes back to studying his newspaper. He doesn't even seem to mind that he's reading last week's issue. It's always the same bullshit anyway - someone dies, some Hollywood star blunders on the red carpet and some politician's dirty secret is scandalously revealed to the grey masses.

"What? It's five? Why aren't _you_ sleeping?" Dean glances at the clock, then looks outside the window. The sky did seem pretty grey indeed.

The older man is silent, pretending to be immersed in deep lecture of an article about Chinese economics. Apparently, everyone had demons of their own to keep them up at night. Dean takes the hint, finishes his coffee without further comments and immediately gets a refill.

"Grab yourself a toast, you gotta be starving," Bobby gestures towards a plate sitting on the table before him. "And come, lemme talk to you."

Dean obeys, a huge lump forming in his throat. Refusing to let go of his coffee just yet, he twirls the cup in both hands before his growling stomach prompts him to snatch a toast. Bobby leans in and starts speaking in a hushed voice:

"I know it's none of my business, but you might wanna ease up on your brother a little. It's hard for him, too."

Dean winces terribly. "Well, tough. Nobody told him to fucking fall in love with me, of all things," he reasons with a mouthful of cold but otherwise delicious toast.

"Nobody tells anyone to do anything at all. Sometimes things just happen," the older man shrugs. "It's hurting him. I can tell. And it ain't his fault, boy. Or yours."

Dean instantly loses the appetite for the rest of his toast, so he tosses it back on the plate, sad and uneaten. "Okay, maybe. So how does that change anything, exactly? What is it you propose I do, Bobby? Huh? Cause the way I see it, everything's screwed to hell and nothing's gonna make it right."

The object of their conversation chooses this very instant to join the other hunters in the kitchen. "Morning," Sam murmurs distantly, pale as a ghost. Dean's stomach does a full backflip, but not in the pleasant, butterfly kind of way. It twists into vicious knots and probably messes with digesting that half of toast he just ate.

"I got us a case, we've a long road ahead," Sam adds without facing either of them, holding a bag in his hand. "I'm gonna go load up the car." No coffee, no breakfast - he just leaves.

The hunters sitting at the table trade meaningful looks. Dean's eyebrows couldn't possibly go any higher even if they tried.

"See? That's what I'm talking about! What I propose you do, is think of _something_. Anything. Hell, write him a poem, but you can't let him walk around like some living corpse!"

"A freaking _poem_? Sure Bobby, how about: roses are red, violets are blue, I'm not gay and incest is gross?"

"Very funny, dimwit. My point is, you can't leave things like that. He's your _brother._ "

"Exactly," Dean sighs, getting up from his chair to follow Sam out. "That's the problem here." He stops at the doorway. "Thanks, Bobby. For everything."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean Winchester has never been more grateful for the existence of a car radio - that way, Lynyrd Skynyrd can blast happily through the speakers without risking a potential, unbearably awkward silence. If anything, the ride has proven rather monotonous thus far. The soothing sounds of classic rock accompanied by the Impala's relaxing hum synchronically pull Dean's tired mind into sort of a trance. Numerous road signs flash and smudge before his eyes, yet he doesn't pay any more attention to them than he does to Sam's tall figure hunched in the seat next to him. Their disagreement was not without its perks - ever since Dean started up his baby's engine, the other hunter hasn't uttered so much as a single bitchy comment about Dean's speed limit violations or the loudness and choice of music. That being taken care of, he was free to try and think of the "something" he needed to do about... about their _issue._

So far, Dean was only past establishing a couple of elementary truths about the problem at hand:

  * As Bobby said, sometimes things just happened. Sam didn't want this at least as much as Dean himself.
  * Even though theoretically Dean _could_ pretend that nothing had happened, Sam most certainly wouldn't.
  * No matter how tactfully Dean rejects him, it'll still be rejection and will still result in Sam getting hurt (the last of possible results that Dean would want to achieve if he hasn't already).
  * No matter what he does, they're screwed, and nothing's ever going to be the same again.



As he goes through each and every point over and over again, a new thought suddenly assaults his mind. Dean loses control of the car for one, crazy second - the tires screech in protest as the hunter steers dramatically off-road. Sam is agitated by the unexpected turbulence to the point of forgoing his silent treatment.

"What the hell was that, dude?!" he roars irritably, trying to top off the combined rumble of a revving engine and a lively guitar solo.

"Something," Dean just murmurs, eyes laser-focused on the road. Truthfully, he looks kind of deranged at the moment. Sam rolls his eyes and sinks back into his seat with a disgruntled snort.

It has been stated, on numerous occasions, that Dean would do absolutely anything for his little brother. Now, Dean is pretty sure that his "something" counts as "anything". Although it is not a "something" he'd gladly do, who said that sacrifices were supposed to be pleasant?

Dean's iron grip on the steering wheel turns sweatier each and every second, his heart beating to a very wild, erratic rhythm. Crazily enough, it seemed like the only way to save Sam from drowning in guilt and self-resentment. Would it actually work? Could he do it? 

 _"I have to do it,"_ Dean asserts, sealing his decision as they park near one of the countless shabby motels scattered across all 50 states of America. Surprisingly, their room is actually good value for money - that, or Dean just can't seem to spot any cockroaches nearby. Yet.

"Care to say what the job is, at least?" he asks as they settle inside.

In all sincerity, Sam doesn't care much about anything at all right now. For all he'd been expecting from this moment, not many of his expectations have actually been met. It could well enough be that he'd wasted all of his energy on fearing it, and when it actually came, he just feels numb. Tired. Void. All the raging emotions from last night have mysteriously evaporated.

He thinks it's safe to say that he doesn't give a fuck anymore.

In that particular state of indifference, he sits on the motel bed and stares at his brother. Oh, cause he can stare now, can't he? Dean won't get the wrong idea because there is no wrong idea - nothing but the bitter, naked truth. In a way, it's liberating.

As he stares, he's reminded of Dean's earlier question.

"Uh, it's on my laptop, check if you want."

Dean doesn't even budge, so they just stare together in that dreaded, awkward silence they tried so bad to avoid.

Sam clears his throat. "I'll get it for you."

He doesn't realize until a moment after just how much he's screwed himself over. The laptop was in his bag, and his bag was by the doors. Standing by the doors was Dean, regarding him with a mixture of worry and anticipation. Sam wasn't ready for a confrontation in such close quarters just yet.

He gulps and remembers that he's not supposed to give a fuck. Meanwhile, his traitorous legs seem heavy as lead and his throat clenches tightly in nervousness. Just when he's about to stoop down and snatch the bag, he's interrupted by a hand on his sleeve.

"Sammy."

Their eyes meet only for a split second, right before Dean's green ones flutter shut as he leans forward to connect their lips in a kiss.

A kiss?

"Whoa!" Sam jerks back violently, holding his arm out to keep his brother within acceptable distance. The other hunter just blinks, batting those ridiculously long eyelashes of his with a puzzled expression upon his face. Sam feels like he's just won the lottery and refused to collect his million dollar reward.

"Don't look at me like that, Dean." He uses the literal entirety of his willpower not to indulge in what he's just denied himself. "You don't get to do that."

Dean gulps, forcing a sympathetic look on his face. "Hey, come on. It's okay, Sam. I'm sorry about yesterday, I was just... shocked, I guess. You didn't really believe anything I said, yeah? I mean, it doesn't matter what dad would think. He's gone now, and we... we can have each other, right? We only have each other now. So... please. Let's figure this out. I'm sorry."

The words lack impact. To Sam, they seem hollow. False. There is no confidence to be found in them, like maybe Dean didn't believe in any of that himself.

"No, it's not okay," Sam hisses. "I'm not buying what you're selling, Dean. I'm not— I'm not an idiot." He turns around and starts pacing away to escape the other hunter's piercing gaze, ruffling his hair in vexation.

Ah, there they are - the emotions. They weren't gone, just dormant, looking for the opportune moment to come and bite him in the ass. He'd rather refrain from using that particular comparison, but what better way to describe it than being possessed? The demon inside him wants to kiss and take and claim while Sam - just a weak, human being - desperately tries to reason with his blind desire. As it is known, in 99,9% cases of possession the demonic passenger ultimately takes the reins, leaving the host helplessly enslaved. In light of Sam's previously shown susceptibility to the influence of higher powers, his self-restraint yields just the same.

"I don't understand, why would I—"

There is an audible "mmpfh" at the end of Dean's unfinished question. He's slammed against the wall hard enough to draw a moan and then he's kissed, kissed, kissed. He can't keep up, hands grappling blindly for support only to be pinned down by the wrists moments later. Sam is harsh and demanding, pushing his tongue inside Dean's warm mouth like it's the last thing he'll ever do and _goddamn_ , the bastard knows how to do it just right. If it weren't for the "gay incest alert" flashing like a bright red diode in the back of his mind, Dean just might have lost himself in the sensation.

They're steering away from the wall now, gravitating towards the nearest bed, they're almost—

"No," Sam tears their lips apart, shoving Dean back against the wall. "Not like this."

The hunter cringes at the impact. He looks both ravished by the kiss and stunned with the force behind Sam's push. His lush lips hang half-open, slightly reddened to match the color of his flushed cheeks. It's a look that Sam's always craved to see on his brother, and it makes his cock stiffen inside his pants.

Well, except this wasn't brother - not _really_. He simply couldn't be. This was a whole another Dean, the one from his most secret sexual fantasies, needy and submissive. Without a doubt, "needy and submissive" were adjectives that couldn't be possibly used to describe Dean on a normal day, hence why they were called fantasies, exactly. And the "panting, debauched" Dean before him was a fantasy come true. 

At that moment, his imagination runs wild; he sees Dean moving closer, shrinking the distance between them. Just two small steps and he's right there with him, wrapping his arms around his neck, begging Sam to take him. He can almost feel his hot breath tickle his ear, can nearly hear the tempting slur of his hushed voice. The image seems so real that the hunter is hit with a dizzying wave of arousal that nearly sweeps him off his feet, and even if it is but a vivid dream, Sam still stops for an actual second to make doubly sure his brother hasn't actually moved from his spot. 

"Some professor dived off a building that's supposedly haunted," he wheezes, trying to ignore the searing burn in his abdomen.  

"W-what?" Dean blurts out in response, stupefied. He looks as if he's just awoken from a dream of his own.

"The case. You asked."

Well, fuck. They just made out. The last thing on Dean's mind was their bloody _case_.

"You get onto it, I'mma—"

Sam doesn't finish, and doesn't really have to - the painfully-looking buldge in his pants is pretty self-explanatory. He promptly retreats to the bathroom, tripping over the doorstep and leaving the other hunter alone with his racing thoughts. Dean bangs his head against the wall and wipes his lips with a sleeve, disgusted by both himself and what they've done. He lets the sickening feeling rise heavily in his stomach and slowly make him nauseous. He needs to get used to it, because the next chance he gets, he'll be far more convincing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the trickster episode (15, "Tall Tales").

"BEST BURGERS IN OKLAHOMA" scribbled down chaotically on an old, wooden board seemed to be doing a miraculous job of attracting hungry folk. The place was packed, filled with both customers and a mouth-watering smell of grilled sausage. When Dean sinks his teeth into a juicy double bacon cheeseburger, he fully understands the reason behind the diner's popularity, and it was far from being the advertisement’s merit. Sam regards his brother's choice of breakfast with silent yet blatant disapproval, slurping his smoothie in a particularly skeptical manner (yes, even for him).

Judgment aside, Dean _needs_ that burger. He's been constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown these days, and the junk food he's currently devouring might be the only thing keeping him sane. Ever since Sam came out of the motel bathroom that memorable night, they've been at each other's throats. And by no means did their bickering end with ganking that slimy trickster one week ago, oh no. It was but the beginning of their perpetual warfare and squabbling about random crap; about Dean's dirty socks in the sink and other pieces of rogue underwear, about Sam's snoring or the toxic winds he breaks after eating a burrito (which, Dean thinks, he does on purpose). And as if the older Winchester wasn't preoccupied enough with inventing new taunts and comebacks, he also had to focus on his ridiculous quest to beguile his brother. Ironically enough, it's been an endless chain of failures; n _othing_ seemed to work. Not his attempts to induce jealousy with aggressive flirting, not his dirty, gay jokes with tons of subtext, not the "accidental" touches and "accidental" looming, not his new cologne or not even parading half-naked around their motel room. In short, nothing. Even now, as he winks indecently in their waitress' direction, Sam remains unshaken. Either Dean hasn't got the slightest idea how to seduce a man (or a sibling, for that matter), or his latest behavior simply isn't all that different from the usual.

Out of sheer helplessness, he called Bobby two days ago. When the senior hunter heard about Dean's brilliant strategy, he berated him with an impressively colorful lineup of insults. 

"Did John drop you on your head when you were little?!"

"Geez, Bobby, chill! I just thought that—"

"Well then thinking clearly ain't your element, son! How do you expect to pull this off?! Sam would have to be either blind or retarded to fall for your bullshit plan!"

"Well, they do say love is blind—"

"And I'm sayin' it's impossible to fake being in love with your own goddamn brother!"

"Okay, okay already! No faking, got it. So then... unless you got a love potion lying around somewhere, I'm screwed?"

...

"You know, that ain't actually half bad an idea, I think I saw a spell in—"

That's when Dean hung up with a squeamish shudder. Cheating Sam for his own good was one thing, but cheating himself was a whole another level of "nope".

Remembering that conversation, he starts chewing on his burger with visibly smothered enthusiasm. On the other side of the table, however, Sam's head suddenly emerges from behind today's newspaper to twist and turn after a butch guy in tight-fitted clothes. His stare is soon acknowledged with a meaningful wink that brings a satisfied grin to the hunter's face.

Dean nearly chokes on the remains of his cheeseburger.

"What the hell was that, man???"

"What the hell was what?" Sam feigns innocence, worrying a straw between his teeth.

"That! Since when do you check out other dudes?"

"Since Stanford," he shrugs, his calm yet strikingly snide attitude making Dean's blood boil with irritation. "I went out with a couple of guys before I met Jess."

"Oh, you went out, cool. Stanford. Right," Dean nods, a phony smile contorting his greasy lips. "So _... that's_ your type? Beefy frat boy in leggings?"

Sam sniggers, and it's the first genuine laughter Dean manages to wring out of him ever since he got possessed (the gay jokes certainly failed in that department). When his answer doesn't get any more elaborate than that, Dean goes on.

"Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. Just hope you can handle him, bro. Unless _... you_ prefer to be the one... being, errr, handled, if you know what I mean?" he stammers ungraciously. Discussing sex has never made him quite this uncomfortable, when normally he had no qualms about delighting his brother with spicy details about bedroom conquers of his own.

"I can handle myself just fine, thank you. The macho ones tend to... overcompensate."

As Sam's meaningfully arched eyebrows would suggest, the innocent generalization was actually a stealthily concealed insult. But rather than being offended by the implication, Dean feels a hot rush of adrenaline. Their conversation has finally steered in the right direction and the devil on his shoulder starts screaming at him to _do it now or never_ , all while the angel argues to _retreat and run for safety_. Silently calculating all the alternatives, Dean unconsciously puts on his "stupid yet attractive" look - eyes a-blinking, mouth agape - and he'd probably remain in that state of mental suspension longer if it weren't for a pair of immodestly exposed boobs suddenly jumping into his view. The waitress hands him their check (with a neatly written phone number, of course) and walks away in a springy stride, which is approximately when Dean finally regains his ability of speech.

"Eh. I bet you're all talk and no action, Sammy-boy," he taunts, leaning back nonchalantly.

"Uh, well, no. Wrong Winchester. That's _you_ , Dean." Sam narrows his eyes, assuming a defensive stance. It was Dean's turn to start their daily quarrel, anyway - let him bring it on.

"Oh yeah? Says you, who runs fap-marathons in motel bathrooms. Real action-like."

"Don't make it about THAT!" Sam's indignant voice rises above the diner's morning chatter, earning them a couple of curious glances. He looks around, motioning at Dean to come closer. "Let's... let's not talk about it in here, okay?" the hunter whispers inconspicuously, trying to avoid attracting any more attention to their table.

Their faces are mere inches apart now, close. Dean takes advantage and nibbles at his plump, bottom lip. After he's made sure that Sam's eyes stay firmly fixed on where they're supposed to, he licks off the salty, burger taste with a slow, tantalizing sweep of his tongue. The pink muscle catches briefly on his white teeth before disappearing back inside the lush mouth. 

Sam immediately jerks away as if burned. "I gotta go take a leak," he mutters what is clearly a bad excuse and rushes towards the diner's restroom. Dean waits a couple of seconds before followig suit, not caring to stop and rethink his actions. As expected, he doesn't find Sam "taking a leak" like he said he would, but standing in front of the mirror and splashing cold water all over his face. Dean grabs his shoulders and steers him inside a random cabin, pinning him against the wall and aiming for his lips. Sam doesn't resist - he's not very good at resisting Dean anyway - and kisses back, idly and with certain reserve, clearly weighing an inner battle. After a quick and awkward make-out session, he pulls Dean away and pushes him down on his knees.

"Come on, Sam. I just ate. I'm full," Dean jokes, attempting to introduce some humor to the compromising situation of being leveled with his brother's crotch. Despite the jest, he obediently takes out Sam's cock.

It may be borderline porno cliché, yet Dean still cannot withhold a bewildered gasp at the sight of Sam's... well, "weapon of mass destruction" would probably be the appropriate term to describe what he was packing. After a brief moment of silent wonder and careful appraisal, Dean realizes that he must look remarkably idiotic with wide-open eyes and a dangling dong in his hand. Unfortunately, his awe doesn't escape Sam's attention.

"Dean, I saw you devour half a double cheeseburger with one bite. I'm sure you can handle it," he mocks, slapping his already half-hard manhood against the hunter's open lips. All he receives in response is a passive-aggressive glare.

Dean jacks the length experimentally, feeling it swell in his fist. With a tentative swirl of his tongue, he begins lapping and sucking on the tip, lips pouted obscenely. Sam's breathing accelerates from the pleasurable sensation, mesmerized by the sight of his older brother steadily going down on his enlarged cock.

The blow-job is somewhat clumsy, at first; Sam sympathizes and helps Dean through the process of swallowing his dick by massaging his tightly-stretched jaw, willing it to widen and accommodate more cock. Dean gags, but Sam is already too busy pushing in and out of his hot mouth to even consider feeling sorry. Who could blame the younger Winchester for getting too excited? After years of unfulfilled fantasies, he was finally allowed to appease his desire. And how many goddamned times did he beat off to the image of Dean's perfect mouth stretched around his throbbing cock?

Yeah. Many times.

Dean whimpers, breathing heavily as he's almost deep-throated, involuntary tears prickling in his eyes. At some point Sam pulls out with a pop to ask if everything's okay, but Dean immediately starts licking and kissing along his slick shaft, remaking the question into a satisfied groan. Oh, he's a quick learner. His right hand slides up and down in firm strokes as the other plays with his balls, head bobbing faster and faster, bringing his brother to a sweet yet embarrassingly quick completion.

Sam hasn't been laid in a while, so when he comes, he comes buckets, unloading half of his seed into Dean's slack mouth, onto his waiting tongue, the rest spurting messily all over his flushed face - catching in his eyelashes, hair and cheeks, painting a picture so sinfully dirty that Sam almost fucks back into his abused throat, almost makes him choke and gobble all the cum. Instead, he tilts up Dean's chin, guiding the trickling sperm back into his mouth. Dean's puffed lips wrap around his finger, sucking it in as he watches Sam with those glazed, green eyes.

"Make yourself presentable," is all Sam says before he exits the cabin, leaving his brother kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor, covered in spunk.

Dean waits a moment before he retches in the toilet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the events in episode 17 "Heart".

When Jessica died, screaming and burning on the ceiling, Dean didn't know what to say. When Madison dies, put out with a silver bullet to the heart, he's all the more speechless.

What is the customary thing you say to someone who's lost yet another chance for normal love? And why a simple "I'm sorry" isn't enough? Is it because they had to fire that gun themselves? Or maybe because that someone is your own brother, whom you'd wish to see happy above all else?

Instead, Dean had to watch that mirthful spark in Sam's warm eyes hopelessly die away, obscured by tears. He saw the dimples of his smile disappear in a pained grimace. A knife in the gut would've probably been better than that.

Although Madison's fate was undeniably sad, Dean found himself more concerned about the fact it was a fate his brother could eventually share. And although Dean could imagine a great many things - from the zombie apocalypse to Bobby wearing a pink skirt - he couldn't imagine pulling the trigger on Sam the way he did on Madison.

Along with her, died a solution. Dean desperately - and maybe a little selfishly - kept his fingers crossed for their blooming romance. Sam would've finally done away with his perversion and Dean wouldn't have to wake up in the middle of the night, guilt-ridden and sweaty. He wouldn't be sitting alone on the curb in front of their room at 2:21 AM.

It is unfair, he thinks, taking a generous swig of beer. With the way justice is dealt out in this world, the Winchesters clearly didn't get their share. Was it the "short straw" kind of thing? Maybe God likes to make fun of them, simple as that?

"You're a dick, you know that?" says Dean, raising his head to glare at the starry sky. He doesn't get a response. If the man upstairs doesn't answer to prayers, why would he answer to insults? Dean swallows the rest of his drink and throws the empty can in what he thinks might be the direction of a nearby dumpster. With a final, weary sigh, he sneaks back inside.

+++

It's 2:22 AM when Sam hears a careful turn of the doorknob resound amidst the stillness of the night. He's been expecting it. Dean's nightly escaped were starting to become a ritual habit of some sort.

"Where were you?" he asks indifferently, not bothering to turn his back. Dean almost jumps, startled by the sound of his voice.

"Jesus, Sam. Sleep. You need it."

The younger Winchester snorts humorlessly. He could write a goddamn ten page essay about the things he needs, and "sleep" would probably place several positions behind "a dog".

Met with a lack of response, Dean strides up to Sam's bed with a soft, weary sigh, the cheap motel mattress sinking under his weight. Truly, if the brothers had a dime for every single one of Dean's sighs, they wouldn't have to live off forged credit cards anymore. That being said, Sam wasn't exactly the best person to judge his fellow hunter's melodramatic habit. After all, he was the main reason behind Dean's distressed sighs and frowns. Wasn't he? Things were looking pretty bad between them, after all. They haven't had a chance to talk anything out yet, and Sam wouldn't even know what to say besides maybe "I'm sorry". For all the sighing. For the blow-job. For his entire fucked-up existence. 

"I'm sorry, Dean," he offers lamely, still refusing to look at his brother's face. Those words, however simple and meaningless, actually manage to make him feel a bit better. 

Unsurprisingly enough, Dean lets out a heavy sigh in response, as if he was charged with carrying the weight of the entire world. "For what?"

The right words just can't seem to squeeze past Sam's throat. A different thought comes to his mind, instead, and he raises his eyebrows in sudden amusement, trying not to chuckle. "Well... yeah. The other time, at the gas station. You know, when you asked for pie and I said they were out? I lied."

His words are immediately followed by a loud, outraged intake of air. "Y-you— ... ! You mean little shit!" Dean exclaims, giving Sam a hard nudge on the shoulder. "That's barbaric!"

"And they had quite the selection, too. Cherry, apple, blueberry..."

"You shut your mouth, now."

"...banana, peach, key lime, pumpkin..."

"I said shut up!" Dean sniggers despite his best efforts to act offended. "I'm gonna get you for this." He flops down on the mattress, head to head with his brother.

Sam knows it's inevitable at this point. Once he dares to look at Dean for the first time tonight, there is no going back. It only makes sense that they should kiss, doesn't it? It's almost like in the movies, with all that telltale "magic of the moment", invisible chemistry and flying sparks. Or, well, something. Their mouths connect mere seconds after their eyes do, tongues locking in a slow, tentative exchange. When it seems like Dean's not about to freak out and run away screaming, Sam dares deepen their kiss, caressing his brother's cheek, his neck, his arm. He traces a finger across his bottom lip and keeps it there after they slowly break apart.

"Why do you taste of beer?" he asks, hooking his arm around Dean's waist, his voice soft and low, touch gentle.

"Cause I couldn't find any whiskey," the older Winchester grins impishly, looking up into his brother's eyes. And all he sees there is pure, unadulterated love - not the kind of love he would exactly wish for, but love nevertheless. It dawns upon him that Sam was probably the only person left on planet Earth to look at him with this much feeling, and his heart clenches in sorrow. With their parents gone and with their kind of lifestyle, they would only ever have each other to rely for comfort. Knowing that, how can Dean bear to betray his trust and lie to him so?

This wasn't the way, he could see that now. There had to be another solution - some golden mean, an alternative choice beyond "bad" and "worse". Maybe it wasn't too late to back down just yet, maybe Sam would still understand. And with time, maybe his heartbreak would heal and they could be brothers again, but certainly not if Dean follows through with this deception.

It's mere moments later that he realizes that it was, in fact, too late to back down. The buldge of Sam's erection presses against his hip, hard and intimidatingly large.

"You weren't lying? You really want this?" he whispers, pinning him to the mattress. And Dean can only nod, overtaken by a sudden surge of panic, even as inwardly everything's screaming at him to stop this madness before it gets too far. He's supposed to stop, to explain, to beg his forgiveness, yet he cannot move even a single muscle.

Sam's warm lips are back against his, and the movements of his tongue are more insistent this time, more demanding as his hands wander around to places they weren't meant to explore. Dean gets flipped around before he can do anything about it, his racing thoughts unable to catch up with reality. He buries his head between his arms, eyelids squeezing impossibly tight even though he can't see anything anyway. Ironically enough, Sam seems to mistake his quickened breathing for arousal, and his shivering for impatience. Mere moments or a whole eternity later, Dean's shorts are yanked down and there's something moist - fingers, most likely - pressing against his entrance. That's when he fully comprehends the enormity of his mistake, and what _the hell_ was he thinking?

Sam finally takes notice of his discomfort and misinterprets it for first-time nervousness, leaning in to plant a few gentle kisses on his tense shoulders. "Relax," he murmurs, unknowing. "I'll go easy."

Dean just nods again, trembling as Sam's fingers sink deeper, moving around, opening him up. He presses his pelvis down to the bed to hide his pitifully flaccid cock. Black vision starts swimming behind his clenched eyelids and it occurs to him that he's almost hyperventilating by now. Through the buzzing in his ears he vaguely picks up the sound of a well-known voice - asking a question, perhaps - and he just answers with another nod, focusing on calming down his breathing, on inhale and exhale, which helps only until he registers the slow press of hot flesh breaching his hole. Dean bites into his forearm as hard as he can, hoping to divert his attention from that unbearable, foreign feel of being penetrated. But not even the metallic taste of his own blood manages to distract him from that painful stretch brutally taking over his senses. The ringing in his ears subsides just in time for him to hear Sam's pleased gasps behind his back as he starts rolling his hips back and forth.

"Dean..." he groans, clearly euphoric. "You feel so good... so tight and hot and _perfect._ " He shoves harder and harder, too lost in bliss to notice his brother's lack of reciprocity, filling the room with heavy breathing and dirty slaps of skin on skin.

At some point - somewhat absentmindedly - Dean realizes that he's moaning. The sounds seem distant, as if they weren't coming out of his proper mouth, as if his conscience has detached itself from his body and continued to exist independently from the other. Last he remembered, his cock was soft and unresponsive, now he discovers it leaking against the sheets. He isn't surprised to find himself reacting to prostate stimulation, but it certainly doesn't help him feel better about any of this. About committing  _incest_. Dean's teeth seek out his arm to try and punish himself with pain again, sinking even deeper. He's not sure how much longer this goes on, but his orgasm takes him by surprise - he doesn't welcome it, savor it, or miss it when it's over. Dean doesn't even budge when spurts of come shoot out of his cock and his numb body stays unmoving while still being split open by last, desperate thrusts from behind. Soon he's filled with his brother's seed and pinned to the bed by his sweaty, heaving body. Sam presses a kiss to his nape and rolls them on the side, wrapping a loose arm around his waist. Spent, tired and content, he slips into peaceful slumber for the first time in long weeks.

Dean feels his calm breath hit the back of his neck, soft and ticklish. Only then does he allow himself to cry just that little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's any consolation, this chapter was the sole reason behind the non-con rating, so no more surprises after that.  
> Also thank you for leaving kudos/comments until now! :)


	8. Chapter 8

It's well beyond two hours past checkout when Sam finds himself stirring among impeccable quietude. No unanswered calls on his cellphone, no one banging on the door with urgent demands to vacate the room. In all truthfulness, the room _does_ look vacant - his brother is nowhere to be found, and his belongings aren't scattered in their usual disarray across the bed and table.

Remembering last night's events, his mind starts producing a surprisingly vast arrangement of worst-case scenarios, but the suspicions disappear like a burst soap bubble once the doors swing abruptly open.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean greets him, business as usual. "Wanna guess what?"

Sam just shrugs, staring at him listlessly through the mop of his bed-hair. He wasn't in the mood for riddles.

"We're going to LA, that's what. There's this case, a haunted movie set, like in the _Poltergeist!_ " He throws him the newspaper, but Sam doesn't even spare it a single glance, shrugging yet again. "Whatever."

"Whoa, where’s the enthusiasm? Might as well take some time off while we’re at it, no?"

"Sure, I agree. But first, we need to talk," Sam grumbles, inexplicably put off by his brother's cheerfulness.

"Not the best time for chit-chat, Sammy. Landlord's getting impatient," Dean continues his chatter, starting to pack the rest of their things in a duffle bag. "Pack", meaning "randomly throw stuff inside". "Besides, you kinda need a shower first," he adds, throwing him a skeptical look across the shoulder.

"Now, Dean," Sam insists and makes a move to get out of bed only to halt mid-motion. He wasn't wearing any pants. "Hey, would you mind—" he begins, but before he can finish, a pair of boxers makes its way across the room and hits him square in the face.

"Headshot," Dean triumphs.

Of course. There it is again - the "everything's peachy" attitude that Dean hides behind whenever nothing is actually peachy. Sam puts on his underwear, doubts and gloomy thoughts assaulting him from every direction. Though he's finally gotten what he wanted, it just somehow wasn't everything he'd hoped for, not quite like he’d imagined. And he’d imagined it plenty of ways, sure - he had admittedly pictured taking Dean in every possible place and position, but he's always wanted their first time to be _special_. Last night wasn’t special, and he couldn't even put his finger on the reason why. Something just felt terribly off and the notion kept eluding him stubbornly, sitting somewhere in the back of his mind and filling him with eerie anxiety.

"Screw the landlord. I go shower, then we talk. Deal?"

"Eh. Deal," Dean agrees skeptically, eyes following Sam all the way to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes with a quiet click, he sinks onto the nearest chair with a shaky sigh and hides his face in both hands. It's taken up all of his willpower to try and act casual, to look at his brother without shamefully averting his eyes. After Sam had fallen asleep, he stumbled into the bathroom and puked his guts out, drove to the nearest 24/h store to buy a bottle of whiskey and puked some more. A long, cold shower sobered him up and washed away the stink of alcohol, but did nothing to help that foul feeling tearing him from the inside out. His stomach twists and churns every time he remembers what they did, what he let happen, how it _felt_. It’s as if he’s being stabbed, repeatedly, viciously, and his skin crawls in a way that makes him want to scratch and scratch until there's blood.

He’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the act knowing that he corrupted and betrayed the very person he's always cared most about. The same person he was supposed to protect, someone who mattered more than anyone or anything else. His own little brother, _Sammy_. How is he even supposed to keep living with something like that staining his conscience? Everything has fallen to pieces and only one thing was for sure - it was too late to turn back. If he tells Sam the truth _now_ , it will ruin him undoubtedly and irreversibly.

" _You stupid, miserable fucking prick. This was your goddamn idea, now deal with the consequences,"_ he inwardly curses himself. For whatever reason, his inner voice suspiciously sounds like Bobby's.

 _Bobby._ Dean wants to grab his phone and have the hunter yell at him, chew the hell out of his dumb ass, drive here especially to beat him into a bloody pulp. He wants to embrace each and every insult deservedly coming his way, to do penance for his stupidity. Why hadn't he listened? Whatever options he still envisioned himself having while sitting on the curb in front of their room last night were all gone. Right now, even the love spell didn't seem like that much of a nasty idea - a drowning man will clutch a straw, and this was the only straw left on the open ocean.

By the time the bathroom door swung back open, Dean had bitten all of his nails and come up with a big, fat nothing to say. He watches Sam stride over to the table and sit on the opposite side, eyeing him just as carefully.

Dean forces his face muscles to shape into an easy-going smile. "So, what's up?"

"Good question, Dean. What the hell is going on between us? What do we do now?" he asks right away, no bullshit, no foreplay. Dean cringes ever so slightly. Couldn't they beat about the bush just for a little while?

"And what do we always do? Hunt. Drink. Maybe gank the Yellow-Eyes while we're at it," he provides smugly. Seeing that Sam, however, is not exactly impressed with his answer, Dean adds tentatively: "And, apparently... fuck?"

The younger hunter stares at him in disbelief. "Are you even at all aware how to lead a serious conversation? This isn't funny."

"You know me, Sam. What did you expect, candles and roses? 'Samantha, do you want to go out with me?' That kind of stuff?"

"No! I expected none of that, cause just a few weeks ago we were standing and fighting in Bobby's kitchen, and I feel like that was the last time you've been honest with me ever since! Tell me what's going on, Dean. Last night you told me you wanted this, but come morning...? You start playing dumb again. And I don't get it. So, if you just... explained your thought process to me, that would be great."

It would be so easy to just drop that bomb on him right now. To burst his bubble, break his heart. Dean would hate himself for the rest of his life and he will anyway, but he'd still rather hate himself knowing that Sam was happily oblivious.

"It's just... all new to me, all right? This isn't our usual Tuesday hook-up, Sam. We're still brothers, remember? I want this, but... we should just go slow, okay? Figure this out along the way."

Sam nods solemnly, processing his brother's words as if they actually held some value instead of being just a lame, last-minute excuse. "You're right. I guess I was too scared that you might hate me, and I just kind of... wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry."

Oh, _he's_ sorry? This was shaping up to be the most ultimate failure of Dean's life, in a long history of ultimate failures. If there was an annual Worst Big Brother Championship being held somewhere in the world, Dean would earn all of the rewards.

"You know that I could never hate you, Sammy. No matter what," he says quietly. This part was true, at least, and it felt too damn good to be honest for a change - starting from now on, there were going to be fewer and fewer opportunities for that.

Sam says nothing to that. He bites his lip, looking down. An uncomfortable silence settles and persists for a longer while before the younger Winchester finally decides to open his mouth again. "So, how are you... well, feeling? I mean, you've never—"

Dean halts him mid-sentence, raising his hand. "Stop right there. I'll live. But I swear, that giant dick of yours should be given a separate right to vote."

For a good moment, Sam looks like he's waging a battle against himself. He ultimately seems to decide it's okay to laugh a little, and Dean is eternally grateful to finally see that smile again. "You're never going to let up with the penis jokes now, aren't you?"

"Not a chance," Dean grins.


	9. Chapter 9

Moonlight peers from behind a cloudy veil, shrouding the forest in dim shadows. Twigs and leaves crackle underneath his feet as he sneaks closer, breathing heavily from the chase. He stoops down with a silver glock in his hand, droplets of cold sweat tracing through the dirt on his face and mixing with the steady trickle of blood from the cut on his temple. When a sudden blur of movement flashes in the dark shack ahead, the other hunter motions at him to keep pressing forward. The windows are smashed and there is a terrible draught inside, chilling him to the bone. They proceed further into the dark, the creaking of wooden panels echoing in the empty space. His companion's tall silhouette towers before him, shoulders tense in focus. One moment he's right ahead, and the next he simply is not. Dean stops, heart pounding, sweeping the abandoned corridor with a faint beam of his flashlight.

"Dad?" he calls out, panic settling in. He's about to yell again when the lights suddenly flip on, almost dazzlingly bright. In an instant, Dean finds himself standing in the saloon of his childhood house in Lawrence. John is right behind him, wearing an unreadable expression on his face.

"Dad, what's happening? Where's the werewolf?"

"What werewolf?"

"The one we're hunting!"

"We're not hunting a werewolf, son." His voice is cold and estranged, making goosebumps break all over Dean's skin.

"Well... what, then?"

"You." He hears the safety lock click as John points at him with a gun, right between his eyes.

"Dad, what are you—" Dean's voice freezes in his throat as another figure joins his father's side. Shorter and slimmer, with long, blonde hair and white, flowery nightgown.

"Mom?..." he whispers incredulously, taking a wobbly step forward only to be stopped by the revolver pointing at his head. There's not much else he can do but stare at his beloved parents in hurtful disbelief.

"Those are silver bullets, Dean. You think they're gonna be enough for a monster like you?"

"If I'd known you'd turn out to be such a freak, I would've killed you while you were still in my womb."

Tears start streaming down Dean's cheeks as he shakes his head in denial, sobbing. "No, no, don't say that, stop, please..."

"This is what I went to hell for? I told you to protect your brother, not fuck him. This is for Sam's good." Unwavering, hateful, his father finally pulls the trigger...

With a loud BANG, Dean wakes up panting hysterically on the rickety motel bed. _Another nightmare._ Heart still hammering against his ribcage, he runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair and wipes the few tears that have trickled down his cheeks.

Scientists say that memories of vivid dreams disappear soon after waking up, so why does Dean remember every goddamn second of every goddamn nightmare that haunts him? They flash before his eyes even in the light of day, and the only thing that helps numb his restless mind is whiskey - copious amounts of thereof, to be precise. At gas stations, he always snatches himself a few bottles of Jack from the store and hides them from his brother.

Right now, whole rivers of booze probably wouldn't be enough. Of all the ways to dream about Mary, it had to be something like _that_ , didn't it? As if out of spite, his mother's nightmarish image seemed palpably real. That same, kind face he remembered was contorted in a tasteless grimace. The same voice that used to sing him _"Hey Jude"_ called him a freak. Those loving blue eyes were filled with bottomless disdain, as if Dean wasn't her own son, but an offspring of the devil himself.

Is this what Sam had been so afraid of? Of being called a monster for his psychic abilities, a perverted freak for secretly loving his big brother? If so, he must have had tons of similar dreams.

Dean looks over to his right side. _"Not tonight, at least,"_ he thinks. The younger hunter is still sound asleep beside him, chest raising and falling peacefully.

It's not what it looks like - Sam has really taken that "let's go slow" advice to heart and hasn't tried to initiate anything even remotely sexual. After the traumatizing experience of _that_ night, Dean was grateful for being given some time to pull through. Admittedly, the images didn't haunt him like his nightmares did (probably because his face was crushing into the pillow so hard he could barely breathe, much less see anything), but he still felt an uncomfortable itch under his skin, occasional stomach cramps and breaks of cold sweat. It still managed to keep him up at night a few solid times and drove him into several breakdowns and alcohol sprees. He continued to play pretend almost flawlessy, though, and Sam never seemed to notice anything.

It's not until recently that they have started chastely sleeping together. Just about three days ago, awakened by a startling nightmare, Dean crawled into his brother's bed and cuddled up to his warm body. The other didn't protest or even say anything at all, accepting him shyly into his arms. Even when they weren't touching through the night, the hunter's mere presence had a weirdly soothing effect on Dean's nerves, often lulling him to sleep. "Weirdly" soothing indeed, seeing as he was the very reason Dean's nerves needed soothing in the first place.

Dean collapses back on the sheets, blinking his nightly vision away. He stares at Sam's sleeping face before burying himself in the crook of his neck with a quiet sigh that somehow makes him stir from his slumber.

"Dean?" he slurs drowsily, shifting under the covers.

"Really, Sam? _That's_ what wakes you? Go back to sleep, it's nothing."

Sam nods and readjusts his head on the pillow. After five long minutes they're both still fully awake, unable to catch a blink while being huddled so close together. And if the rapid pounding of Sam's heart and the stiffening of his cock were anything to go by, sleeping was the last thing on his mind right now. Not daring to move away, Dean just waits for it to happen, anticipates that first touch or a tentative whisper. But whatever Sam was thinking of doing, he clearly wasn't going to do. As they lay there tense and motionless, it's Dean who finally squeezes their bodies closer. His lips trace along Sam's throat, pressing a few teasing kisses along his neck.

The other hunter inhales loudly. "Dean, you don't have to—"

"I'm horny," he confesses, blowing hot air into Sam's ear, which is undoubtedly a very weird thing to say with the image of John firing that gun still fresh in his mind. Very weird and very true - on Dean's endless list of frustrations, sexual abstinence stood among the most urgent. His new relationship status ("it's _very_ complicated") demanded him to renounce bar hook-ups, and jerking off to "Busty Asian Beauties" certainly wasn't enough to indulge his needs. If this was the only way he could get off, he'd better start figuring it out.

Dean slips a hand inside his brother's slacks, grasping at his hardening member. Sam's cock feels hot in his palm as he pumps it slowly, squeezing his heavy balls. "I meant to keep this slow, not _sluggish_ ," he drawls as his roaming lips blindly seek out Sam's, silencing any objections lingering on the tip of his tongue. What could he possibly say that Dean hasn’t told himself already? Strangely lightheaded, he strokes him faster as they kiss, messy and urgent. Though Dean was used to soft curves and perfume, Sam's faint, masculine scent and the hard press of his muscles all manage to feel disturbingly thrilling. It stirs a faint feeling of arousal in his abdomen that Dean is very unsettled to experience.

"We're grown men, we have needs," he murmurs in explanation, finally pulling out of his shorts to slide himself flush against Sam, pleasuring them both with his hand. Their cockheads rub together and Dean moans, rutting his hips harder to get more of that delicious friction. "And I need this, I need— fuck, I need _you,_ " he pants into Sam's mouth, fist clenching, hot flesh against hot flesh. As they feverishly make out and grind their bodies together, Dean comes to understand that what he really needs is to let go and lose himself in something other than guilt, booze and nightmares. He rolls on top of Sam, straddling him with his bare thighs and choking back a moan he begins working his slick fist up and down even faster, cheeks flushing with heat. Sam's shaky hands grasp at Dean's hips as they sway back and forth, pinning them down harder, craving more contact. He watches his brother move on top of him with his eyes closed and his head tipped to the side, groaning softly in pleasure. Sam's cock throbs at the sight and his breathing grows shallow, uneven. He comes first, shooting his seed onto Dean's shirt with a long cry, hips thrashing up to push into his brother's clenched fist.

Once they're both finished, the elder Winchester's black T-shirt looks like a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting. The hunter shrugs it off and flings it blindly in a random direction, his bare and warm body falling into his brother's arms. Too tired to feel any shame just yet, he doesn't dream for the rest of the night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, had exams and Internet issues. The chapter takes place during episode 20 "What Is and What Should Never Be" (The Djinn one).  
> Enjoy :)

"King or two queens?"

The answer to that question has always been the most obvious thing in the world. Today, for the first time ever, Dean's thrown off balance when he hears it. His mouth hangs open as he stares stupidly at the receptionist, unable to articulate a sound.

"King, actually," Sam timely intervenes, sending the woman a nice smile. She doesn't even blink, handing them the key to room number 10.

 _"Shit just got real,"_ Dean thinks, appalled, following his brother down the corridor. Once the key turns and they step in, he freezes in his spot as if suddenly paralyzed. There, in the middle of the room, stood a double bed. In all its double glory.

"What? If we're going to sleep together anyway, might as well do it in a bigger bed."

Sam's reasoning is perfectly legitimate, yet Dean still fails to find comfort in that logic. Just an ordinary, double bed. A seemingly irrelevant detail, and yet here it makes him feel as if his entire world has turned upside down. It has indeed, and this room with a king-sized bed was a physical proof of it, a veritable representation of the shitstorm that was now his life. Awesome.

"I can go change it back."

Dean snaps back into reality, back in the game. "No, no, it's perfect, all spacey and shit. Maybe now I won't wake up with your god-knows-how-many incher stabbing me in the back."

If Sam had a dime for every time Dean made a penis reference... well, combined with all the dimes for his sighing, he'd be filthy rich by now. " _You're_ the one who crawled into _my_ bed, jerk."

"Bitch," Dean replies mechanically. Out of the initial shock, he shakes his head and finally moves from his spot.

Banter aside, they actually have a case here. Outside of the above-mentioned shitstorm, they still hunt as if nothing had changed. Except to Dean, cases have become a mere distraction from the main issue that was their twisted, incestuous, secretly one-sided love affair. Wow. The world really _has_ turned upside down, hasn't it? Cases used to matter, cases used to be the focus, the meaning, the aim. Saving people, hunting things, scoring hot chicks left and right... the goddamn family business.

Dean insists that Sam stay to research in their motel room (with a fucking king-sized bed, seriously) while he does an initial perimeter sweep; or, at least, that seems to be the excuse today. All he really wants is to drive around in his baby and listen to Led Zeppelin's IV, all while taking an occasional swig of blissfully bitter whiskey. A moment of respite, a chance to clear his head and reassess his priorities.

His plan, however perfect, fails to carry itself out until the very end. The album has only played halfway through and the bottle is still mostly full when he stumbles upon an abandoned building on his way. Driven by a reluctant sense of duty, Dean pulls up in front of it and gives Sam a quick, heads-up call.

 _"I'll check out this one, at least,"_ he thinks, stepping out of the Impala with a flashlight and gun in hand.

+++

Sighing is contagious. When Dean leaves him alone to research in their room number 10 with a king-sized bed, Sam lets out a long, heavy sigh to adequately demonstrate his discontent. Oh, and he's supposed to focus? Whatever it is they're hunting, it can't be a bigger mystery than his brother's puzzling behavior. Out of the two issues, he'd much rather solve the latter.

Driven by a reluctant sense of duty, Sam finds it within himself to flip open his laptop and skip through several lore sites with genuine intent to figure out the case. He stares blankly at a random page, once again going back to reliving last night's events.

It was quite the leap forward compared to just a couple of weeks ago, when Dean was shouting out his lungs in Bobby's kitchen. Sam couldn't help but wonder how exactly "this is sick" somehow became "I need you", which was a curiously dramatic change of heart. He ultimately arrived at a mildly convincing conclusion that his brother was still getting past the stage of denial, and he - Sam - just needed to be patient and cooperative.

Closing his eyes, he can still see Dean moving on top of him, flushed and enticing, and it's enough to make his abdomen twist in arousal. The image soon fades, however, replaced with the memory of anger and disgust on his brother's face that evening he found out.

 _You're thinking too much_ , he tells himself. _Last night was real, we’re doing good._  

So why did Dean still flinch when Sam tried to kiss him this morning? How much time did he need exactly?

No, bad question. Irrelevant. Sam would give him as much as he wanted, as much as was necessary. He too needed no small amount of both time and denial to finally admit the nature of his feelings toward his own brother. When Dean asked him how long this has been going on, Sam's only answer was "long". Truth was, he had no clue himself. For him, it was always just "long enough". When exactly did he start seeing Dean as more than a brother? Was it already the instant he hit puberty? Or was it later, in middle or even high school?

At this point or any other, it simply started - the dreams, the stares, the jealousy - or maybe it was always just _there_ , even if the full awareness came later than that. And when it did finally come, it was sudden and merciless. What his father blamed on "teenage hormones" and what Dean pegged as "raging libido", Sam called "depression". He's never felt more lost in his entire life. There was not one soul he could confide in, not one place he could find reassurance. He tried praying and going to church, hoping to get absolved of the sins he dreamt of committing. When God had no answers, Sam paid twice a week to get them from a shrink. And twice a week, he'd get that much closer to being suicidal. The reason behind his escapes wasn't just John's tyranny or the desire to be his own man - it was Dean that he was running away from. Incidentally, it was also Dean that got hurt in the process, and Dean that he missed most.

In Stanford, he could finally breathe again. He focused his erring mind on studies, started dating other people, enjoying life. He deliberately missed Dean's calls, knowing that once he's heard his voice again, he would have to start and pine all over. It all had been going so well, right until the man he was condemned to love waltzed right back into his life.

And such was his lot - pining, desiring, looking but not touching. Every night he would be so close, right in the bed next to him. All he had to do was turn his head and Dean was there, sleeping on his back, usually in nothing more than shorts. Every night, Sam would wish he could be just that little bit closer - slip under Dean's covers and kiss his warm skin, steal the breath from his lustful lips, lose himself in his body. All these months his brother slept next to him, he had absolutely no idea what Sam was going through, that he's been living in constant longing and constant fear that he could somehow find out about his feelings.

And then he did.

In such an awful way, too. Sam really preferred he'd been the one to tell him. He definitely wouldn't have used Meg's words, wouldn't have said he wants to "push him down on all fours and screw him like an ordinary slut." It all went terribly, terribly wrong and still ended up like it did - with Dean saying that it was okay, with Dean having sex with him, with Dean sleeping in the same bed.

All Sam can do is sigh and stare dumbly at his laptop's screen. Djinns. If they really could grant wishes, Sam would wish for a chance to start anew and do everything right.

Or to be a normal person. That would probably help.

+++

Dean doesn't wake up in a king-sized bed, with his little brother pressed to his side. He doesn't feel the familiar, distant throb of hangover headache, or the gut-twisting burden of guilt that pins him down as soon as he opens his eyes. He's in a place he doesn't recognize, lying next to a woman he doesn't remember meeting. He wakes up in a universe where he dates a nurse and works in a garage, where Mary is still alive, John used to play in a baseball team and _Sam_...

Sam is not in love with him, Sam doesn't even _like_ him. Sam went to law school and moved out. Sam is better off without his big brother and happily engaged to Jessica.

It's all so bittersweet, really. Even though Dean's most desperate wishes have all come true, his life was nowhere nearly as perfect as he'd imagined it being.

Mary lives, but she's alone without John.

Sam may not love him, but he hates him instead.

They don't hunt deadly monsters, so deadly monsters kill the people they weren't there to save.

He knows it's not real. And he knows he's got to go back, even though he wishes he could stay just a little longer in this world where he can mow lawns, hug his mother and not have sex with his brother. He wants to stay so bad, and they all want him to stay, too - one by one, they come up and tempt him with promises of happy life. "Why do you have to sacrifice everything? Haven't you done enough?" they ask, and it only makes him want to stay even more.

Sam approaches him last. He looks at him with his usual affection, although some peculiar spark is missing from his hazel eyes. For a split second, Dean has mixed feelings about that. They fade as soon as they appear, leaving a blank space behind.

"Isn't this what you want, Dean? To be able to look in the mirror and not hate what you see? To live with a clean conscience, sleep through entire nights? Here, it's all possible. I have Jess, you have Carmen. Everything's as it should be. You could put down the whiskey and have a normal, healthy relationship you deserve."

Dean smiles through his tears before stabbing himself in the stomach.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dean! Dean, wake up! Come on!"

The voice gains in volume, starts sounding real and familiar. Next comes the sight - terribly blurry but still sharp enough to make out the outline of his brother's worried face. Lastly, he realizes that he's dangling from the ceiling and every nerve in his body is screaming in pain.

"Hey! Hey, there you go, I'll get you down, you're fine."

Dean groans. Loud and unmanly. He staggers like a drunkard, leaning against his brother's strong shoulders.

So it was done, then. He was back to reality, such as it was. Later that evening, after they've done away with the elusive djinn and were sitting on respective ends of their double bed, Dean still couldn't decide if he was happy or sorry about it. Maybe he was indifferent, accepting. That seemed like the right kind of approach. 

"So we didn't get along then, huh? I thought it was supposed to be this perfect fantasy, and not..."

"It wasn't. It was just a wish. You know, I wished for mom to live. If mom never died, we never went hunting, then you and me would just never... you know."

"Well, I'm glad we do. And I'm glad you dug yourself out."

Dean nods his head slowly, ever so hesitant. His feelings for Sam used to be so much more straightforward, too. His head is still spinning - whether from the blood loss or the confusion, he can't really tell.

"So... I was with Jessica, huh?"

Dean lifts his chin, regarding his brother with a frown. Jessica, Madison. To him, they symbolized hope that maybe things didn't need to be that way. It seemed that perhaps Sam needed to be reminded that he was perfectly capable of loving someone else, too, because Dean certainly never forgot.

"Yeah. Yeah, I mean... you had her, man. Should've seen it."

"And you think that would’ve been better?" Sam murmurs the words under his breath so quietly Dean isn't sure if he even wanted to be heard. The older hunter arches an eyebrow in skepticism, heart speeding up ever so slightly for whatever reason.

“I don’t know. Maybe. You loved her, didn’t you?”

“She wasn’t you,” he answers, sending Dean a sour grin. Once he realizes it may have sounded like an insult to her memory, he hastily corrects: "I mean, she really wasn't anything like you. Kind, caring, friendly. And I miss her for who she was."

"Right. So basically what you're implying is that I'm unkind, uncaring and unfriendly, and you're only after my ass," Dean pouts. "I don't think you could have hurt my feelings more."

"Right. You're welcome," Sam scoffs, ruffling his hair. "Shit. That came out wrong. All I'm saying is... I'm just surprised, is all. I can't imagine a universe without being in love with you."

Well, but Dean sure could. Dean wished for one, lived it, and still couldn't decide what was worse - having Sam hate him, or having Sam love him in the wrong kind of way. There didn't seem to be any middle option.

He finally makes that decision somewhat unconsciously, involuntarily, evoking the warmth in Sam's eyes when he looked at Jessica and squeezed her hand adorned with an engagement ring under the table, tender and intimate. He relives that cold feeling when Sam's stare turned indifferent, sliding right past him as if he were a ghost. He remembers the stiffness of his hug and the emotionless way he pronounced his name, like it meant absolutely nothing to him.

No, he could not bear the thought of being a stranger to his own brother, even if Sam would be happier that way, even if it were wrong and selfish. Dean needed to be a part of his life, and those unwanted feelings were a part of who Sam was - he could either have him that way, or not at all.

He sits on their bed, staring intensely at the floor, and fails to register the moment Sam scoots closer and puts a hand on his knee in a gesture of comfort.

"Hey. Everything all right?" he asks softly.

"That's why I got out," Dean rasps out, so quiet that the other hunter has to lean in and ask him to repeat. "That's why I got out. Didn't wanna live in a universe like that," he again says, voice louder but just as hoarse. Sam freezes, but his hand doesn't move from Dean's knee, maybe even squeezes a bit harder. And then Dean kisses him on the lips.

It's not a "heat of the moment" kind of kiss. Slow, long, deep. Maybe even sincere, but that's not something Dean wants to analyze right now. It's taken him enough effort to admit that things should maybe stay the way they are. Sam seems to appreciate the sentiment, pulling him as close as they can get, running a thumb over his cheek.

They start undressing each other - button after button, slowly as their mouths move together. Dean's shirt slips off his shoulders and he shivers, from either cold, anxiety, or both at once. He knows that his "first time excuse" was a one-time excuse only - he was expected to reciprocate this time, not just lay there like a chopped log. There was no safe shroud of darkness, either - the dimly lit bedside lamp was still too bright for Dean's liking, making him feel helplessly exposed. Embarrassment wasn't something he was used to when it came to sex, and there was so much else he wasn't used to, still.

 _"Reciprocate_ ," he scolds himself. Tentatively, his hands wander up Sam's tight shoulders, slowly going up to wind in his hair, running through the long, brown locks. " _They feel so nice_ ," Dean notes idly. _"Maybe he shouldn't cut them after all."_

Sam's teeth catch on his bottom lip and the kiss breaks, their uneven breaths mingling together in a moment of stillness. Their eyes meet and Dean should look away, he wants to look away, but is unable to. His brother's hands rest on his waist, firm but not rough, not insistent, and Dean kind of wants to feel them all over his body already. He tries to shake that urge away as his own fingers slide over Sam's chest and back, feeling his smooth, taut skin and the hard muscles beneath.

" _Huh,_ " he thinks. Dean still saw a nerdy, lanky teenager whenever he looked at Sam, no matter how tall and strong he seemed to become. But now, for the first time ever, he sees a man instead, and it sends a curious shiver down his spine. 

They lean in for a kiss at the same time, lips meeting halfway with newfound urgency. Sam tears Dean's knees apart and crawls in-between, groaning into his mouth and pushing him down onto the mattress. They kiss, and kiss, and Dean's mind starts getting foggy. The shortage of oxygen makes him lightheaded and _oh no_ , he's into it, into Sam, into the way he's licking, biting and holding him down. Not to mention, he's utterly clueless as to how he'll explain that eager gasp he lets out once Sam grabs his ass and pulls him forward with a growl, crashing their hips together. 

He stops devouring Dean's mouth only to start kissing down his chest, restless in his lust. His mouth latches onto a nipple to suck and bite and Dean absolutely _has to_ whimper when he does that - they're sensitive, after all, and Sam takes shameless advantage of that before he finally moves lower. Dean's stomach flutters as Sam's tongue swirls into his navel, tickling and teasing, and he's going out of his damn mind, and why does this have to feel so good?

"Jeans," Sam pants, pawing at his belt. Dean huffs out a "yeah" in response and lifts his ass off the mattress, letting his brother rid him of trousers in one, rapid movement. It's when he's able to breathe again that his mind finally goes back to normal - to thinking, to overanalyzing, worrying about the wrong and the right, to hating it and feeling shame. And it doesn't help that he's hard, and naked, and that Sam's above him and his eyes roam all over, greedy to see everything at once. It does not help at all.

Shit, shit. Shit. He was getting nervous, and Sam couldn't see that, he could _not_. Dean lifts himself up on his elbows to press his lips against Sam's neck, desperate to escape those piercing eyes. He feels safer that way, face hidden as his fingers ghost over Sam's nape and play with his hair. And he almost stops panicking, even almost calms down, but Sam's hands are just so distracting, making him wonder where they'll go next, if they ever get enough of touching and—

 _Shit._ Maybe he should try imagining someone else? He can’t think of women, though, not with two fingers in his ass. A guy then, fine. Some rock star, actor maybe? Think. Brad Pitt? Dr. Sexy? He actually looks like Sam a little, doesn't he?

But it's not Dr. Sexy's name that slips past his lips when Sam's fingers find his prostate.

"Sammy..." he yelps, arching his hips, breathing heavily in need he desperately tries to suppress. He's not supposed to enjoy this, he’s not allowed to lose himself in any of it. That seemed just wrong, given that he never wanted it in the first place. So _very_ wrong, given a million of other reasons.

"Jeans," he hisses, pulling Sam closer by the loopholes of his pants. Quick, he wants it over by the time his brain turns back on again.

Sam struggles to liberate himself out of the confines of his jeans (which proves a monumental task given the monumental size of his hard-on), and Dean's not much of a help either, pulling uselessly at the fabric all while trying to keep his mind from clearing. And then, finally, there it is; their naked bodies sliding together, all skin-on-skin and no boundaries, Sam's hot flesh grinding between his cheeks.

And he - _oh god_ \- he just spreads his legs wider. His mind is so blissfully detached that it might as well be on drugs. He doesn't think about what he's doing ( _who_ he's doing it with), doesn't think what he must look like all spread out and pliant, doesn't really think about anything at all for once. And that's great. Not having to think. Not caring that tomorrow he would have to think even more and drink at least twice as much, or hate himself all over again.

Sam slides inside of him only as slow as his arousal lets him, sweat-damp hair obscuring his flushed face as every muscle in his body tenses in restraint. He's panting harshly, and when Dean puts a hand over his chest, he can feel the crazed pounding of his heart. He catches a glimpse of hazel right before his own eyes flutter shut, mouth hanging open wordlessly when Sam's cock pushes even deeper. And it hurts, how could it not? He's not used to being taken like that, and his eyes might even tear up a little bit.

Sam works himself between his legs, in and out, their king-sized bed's mattress creaking in sync. His mouth trails kisses along Dean's jaw, messy and with just a hint of teeth, steadily moving down to suck on his nipples. Dean's hand lands on top of his head and curls into a fist, thighs locking around Sam's waist. He moans, welcoming the waves of pain mixed with pleasure and moans even louder when it's pleasure mixed with pain instead. Sam’s hands on his hips pin him to the mattress, keeping him firmly in place and leaving bruises that he doesn't care about right now or even at all. Daring to look down he can see where they're connected, where Sam drives into him repeatedly, hard and hot and throbbing. Dean bites at his bottom lip and digs his nails into Sam's shoulders, cheeks burning red as he watches himself get fucked. He sees his body take all of it inside, how he's stretched and filled with every harsh thrust of Sam’s hips... and yet, it's not shame but arousal that he's feeling.

The waves are pure pleasure, now, and he's delirious. They exchange kisses again, open-mouthed and aggressive, hands grappling blindly for each other. Dean's head falls down on the pillow and turns to the side, leaving his neck exposed for Sam to mark it with hickeys. He’s lost in the feeling, in control of absolutely nothing, leaving his lies and play-pretend far, far behind. But once his eyes crank back open, he sees a blurry figure in the corner of the room - just standing there, watching, _judging_. He knows it's but a hallucination when he recognizes his father, his accusing glare and hunched shoulders. Sam keeps on moving inside of him, panting roughly into his ear, moaning his name... and Dean just stares at John with his foggy, green eyes while John stares back at him with his brown ones, filled with fathomless disdain.

And then he blinks, and John's gone. He buries himself in Sam's neck just to be safe, though. He feels him going even harder - a little too hard now, but he angles himself just right and has Dean begging for more.

"Dean, I... fuck, I can't last any longer—" Sam gasps and he’s so close now, just barely holding on. His muscles glisten with sweat as he keeps on pushing inside, waiting for his brother’s release. He reaches to find Dean’s hand and entwines their fingers together, squeezing hard as he fucks him. Dean just urges him to keep going, pressing fervent kisses wherever he can reach. The image of his father evaporates, sure to return and haunt him some other time. Right now, he's unable to focus on anything else other than the rising heat in his abdomen. His damp eyelashes flutter close as he lets the pleasure storm through his trembling body like a current. He comes with Sam's name on his lips, hoarse and strung-out, streams of cum falling on his heaving chest. Sam lets go at the same time, unable to hold off his release any longer, groaning when Dean clenches around him in orgasm. He shoots deep inside, wondering if he should've maybe worn a condom, but the way Dean moans when he's filled rids him of these thoughts at once. There wasn't meant to be any barrier between them, however thin. Breathing heavily, he keeps on punching his hips forward, short and deep, finally stilling when there's nothing more to give. Satisfied, he topples down next to his brother and the room falls silent as he just lay there, savoring the last pleasurable shocks of his climax.

It takes him a while to realize that Dean seems to have momentarily passed out.

"Dean. Hey, Dean," he stirs his brother awake for the second time today, shaking his shoulder.

Dean blinks and groans when comes to consciousness, visibly disoriented. "What the hell?" he slurs, all drowsy and fucked-out, hair ruffled from sliding against the pillow. Sam's spent cock twitches with interest, lips curling into a smug smirk.

"You sort of blacked out for a minute there. Must be cause you're tired from the djinn thing.”

"Wha— seriously? I thought that only happened in cheesy erotic novels for sexually-frustrated 40 year-old women," Dean grumbles.

"Ouch. Must have hurt your male ego."

"Well, I'm all up for hurting my ego even worse if there's more of those awesome orgasms involved," he winks at his brother, stretching contentedly.

Sam chuckles and leans over to seek out Dean's ever-tempting lips again, all swollen from hungry kisses. Dean parts them eagerly for his tongue, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He smirks boyishly when they break away, dragging those white teeth over his bottom lip.

Sam growls into his ear. "Oh, there's more all right. How about we start right away?"

They don't get much sleep that night.


	12. Chapter 12

"Did you know that mongoose has an unusually high incest degree in their species? About 60% of pups are born in the same natal group."

Dean frowns. He slowly lifts his head from Sam's chest to send him an "are-you-fucking-kidding-me" kind of stare.

"Wow, that... changed my life, Sam. Riveting," he finally sighs. "And tell me, do you happen to keep anything useful in that nerdy noggin of yours?"

Sam huffs out a laugh, his lazy smile suddenly turning enigmatic as he slides both hands across Dean’s bare thighs. "Yeah, actually," he says, staring provocatively at his brother.

"Okay, I'll bite. Such as...?" Dean arches an eyebrow, leaning into the touch. _This should be good._ The hands on his thighs move further up, and there's a tickle of hot breath next to his ear.

"I remember exactly where your sweet spot is."

If Dean’s body had an "instant arousal" button, Sam's just brutally mashed it. A wave of heat floods his system, and his palms start sweating a little.

" _Not again_ ," he thinks. " _I've already had to take two showers._ "

They spent much of last night rolling in the sheets; kissing, touching, screwing. Dean was covered in bites, bruises and hickeys, sore all over and so _exhausted_.

Also, deeply satisfied at the same time. Somehow, in this bed, the ghost of his father couldn't haunt him anymore, the remorse couldn't get him, the self-hatred couldn't claw its way inside. For now, he was too busy being content for a change. He even stopped fighting the ever-disturbing "we're brother's" dilemma. Just for now, though. Everything could wait at least until tomorrow. 

"Mmm. Care for a little demonstration?" 

+++

Their relationship diagram has dropped from violent ups and downs to a more stable curve. Dean's focus shifted back to hunting and, as of late, saving his brother from the dangerous powers he carried within. The emotional struggle from the last couple of weeks seemed more distant now, healing and fading away. Somehow, despite all that turmoil and the inevitable changes that came with it, Dean found himself realizing that they were still pretty much the same.

They still tease each other like they used to, fight about random crap, laugh, go to bars, flirt with women, sleep in shitty motels and hustle pool. They still play childish pranks on each other and Sam still rides shotgun and complains about rock music while Dean ignores him and sings along. They still have each other's backs, patch their wounds after a hunt, stargaze on the Impala and share beer. Dean still borrows Sam's shirts without permission and admires Busty Asian Beauties while the other does research. Dean's still a jerk, and Sam's still a bitch.

They're still the same brothers they used to be. And impossibly at the same time, they're not.

They sleep in the same room as ever, except always next to each other now, without the usual distance of single beds. Then there's, of course, the sex - frequent, usually rough and always mind-blowing. Sometimes they save time and water in the morning by showering together, sometimes their showers are long and steamy, instead. Other times they barely make it back to the motel, tearing each other's clothes off in the doorway. Dean finds himself initiating at least half of it; straddling Sam and riding him hard and good, taking care of his morning boner or stopping in random places for a quickie in the Impala. "Sammy" wasn't merely an annoying nickname for his little brother anymore, it was also the name he called out when high on his pleasure, tangled in limbs and sheets.

Then come the more subtle of changes, fleeting touches barely there, just bordering between brotherly and suggestive. Morning kisses on the cheek or meaningful looks exchanged in public - secretive, promising.

Dean contemplates those changes accompanied by a quiet clicking of fingers across the keyboard. There's something fascinating about it now, the way Sam taps away at his laptop, brows furrowed in concentration as he browses through pages of lore. It's a thing he's watched him do a thousand times with barely a hint of interest, yet now he finds himself completely entranced as he waits for the grand "get this".

"Get this," Sam says, and Dean loves how his eyes glint in triumph and the corner of his lips twirls into a lazy smirk. And when did the dimples in his cheeks start to look so... endearing?

Philosophers say that a lie told a thousand times eventually becomes the truth, or something equally deep as that. Was this merely an illusion, then, or was Dean really falling in love with his brother? It resembled a cheesy musical for teenagers, where people jump out of your closet and start singing tacky love songs about your feelings. Dean eyes their motel cupboard suspiciously, as if a Justin Bieber look-a-like was about to crawl out of it any second now.

Sam keeps on talking about his discovery, but none of his words seem to register in Dean's brain. He watches his brother speak and gesticulate, but the only thing on his mind is that mysterious feeling scratching his brain like a fingernail. A feeling he'd never felt before when looking at his little brother despite having had to look at him his entire life.

"What?"

"What what?"

"You were staring."

"I was staring cause you were staring!"

"No way. You were already staring when I stared at you."

"Whatever."

"No, seriously. What is it? You wanna fuck?"

Dean scoffs. "You're so crude sometimes, Sammy. No sense of romance."

"Well, I learned from the best. When I tried to spoon you last night, you elbowed me in the face. Crude it is, then."

Hearing that, Dean actually _blushes._ Like a schoolgirl. Sam closes his laptop with a frown.

"Whoa. Now I'm starting to get worried. Since when do you even blush?"

"You're imagining things, Sammy. That one of your kinks, or something? If you want a blushing bride, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Sam crosses his hands and leans back in the motel chair. "I know what I saw. And the fact you're being so defensive about it only proves that I'm right," he points at Dean with a pen, pleased with his deduction.

And Dean really wants to strangle him at the moment for being so smug, irritating and adorable at the same time.

They do it against the rickety motel table, with Sam slamming Dean down onto the flat hard surface and taking him from behind. The newspaper clips and pages with Sam's meticulous notes all scatter onto the floor while the laptop just barely holds on, hanging dangerously over the edge.

Sam has to start the research all over again. Dean's happy to sit by and watch.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean knows something's wrong the instant he returns from the nearest convenience store carrying bags filled with pie, beer and Sam's rabbit food. He finds his brother sitting silently by the table, shoulders hunched and head hung low as he stares lifelessly at the cellphone in his hand.  

"Waiting to get some nudes?" Dean attempts a joke, but it dies on his lips once Sam lifts his head to look at him. It’s all there in his eyes, and Dean feels the ground escape from under his feet. He knows what's coming.

"You forgot your phone. Bobby called, left you another voicemail. Thought it might be important, so I played it.”

Dean’s throat goes dry and his heart starts thumping desperately against his chest. Inevitably, Sam’s finger pushes the button.

_“You ain’t been returning my calls, Dean. Can’t ignore me forever, you know. I’m just worried about you boys is all. How are you holding up? And how’s Sam? I’m starting to think you did something stupid, specifically “fake-being-in-love-with-your-brother” kind of stupid. I hope to God you didn’t go through with it. Just… call me back already, will ya?”_

This is usually the part where he plays dumb, isn't it? Where he makes twists and turns and evasions, speaks half-truths and spews blatant, disgusting lies. Where he hides behind his mask and pretends everything is fine, okay, just peachy.

But there are cracks in the mask. He’d stopped his lying and pretending, and was tired of it.

"I knew that something was wrong, I knew that you were hiding something, but _this—_... never, not in a million years, would a thought like that ever cross my mind. How could you do that to me? Hell, to _yourself_? I always knew my way of loving you was sick, but you... you're even more screwed up, brother.”

Sam's voice sounds devastated - hoarse and bursting with blame. He scrambles from his seat and starts pacing circles around the room, not unlike Dean in Bobby's kitchen all those weeks ago. The older hunter stays glued to his spot where he watches, speechless, as Sam opens his mouth then closes it back again, smothering all the reproach just begging to be voiced, screamed out loud, rubbed into Dean's face.

"And I found these," Sam finally chokes out, motioning at the two empty whiskey bottles on the table. "I thought I could smell alcohol on you sometimes, but I had no idea you were so desperate. Had to drink yourself to numbness to somehow endure me, huh?"

Dean stopped binge drinking about two weeks ago. He must have forgotten to throw out these old bottles he’d hidden in the trunk. But he doesn't say it, he doesn't say anything at all. It's useless trying to explain himself now, anyway. How could Sam trust anything that comes out of his mouth anymore? Dean’s jaw clenches painfully as he keeps his head down, desperate not to look at his brother. He can't - he _can't_ \- look and see the betrayal reflected in his eyes.

" _Do something,_ " Bobby's voice hisses at him inside his head. " _Say something!_ _Anything to make it easier for him, you bloody fool. Give him some reassurance, for Christ's sake, use some of those empty words you always do. Apologize, explain, tell the truth for once. Do not just stand there gawking like an imbecile, fight for him!_ "

" _No,_ " he tells Bobby. " _I already did 'something'. And look what happened._ "

Maybe he would have been strong enough to fight back in the beginning, when he still had arguments to justify his actions. His mind is just tragically blank, now. He doesn't know how to save Sam from his pain and his fears and his hate, so he just lets it swallow him all up.

“So, Bobby knew. Both of you were just going to let me live in a lie. It certainly didn’t seem to bother _you_ , at least.”

All those sleepless nights. Piles of empty bottles, hours spent vomiting in the bathroom. The nightmares, the remorse. It was safe to say that it bothered him a fair share, although it was probably nothing compared to how much Sam was bothered by finding out the truth.

"All those times. All those times we—"

"Not all," Dean manages to object, his voice oddly foreign to his own ears. "I wanted it, Sam. After."

"No, no. No, Dean. You just GOT USED TO IT."

Sam resumes his journey around the room, winding both hands into his long hair as if he intended to tear it all out. The hair that Dean has stroked and pulled and came to love so much.

"That first time. Ohmygod. You hated it. How could I not see that?”

“I did say I wanted to—”

"And that makes it so much fucking better!" he finally yells, face contorted in anguish. But it's the only outburst he allows himself to have. After that, he slumps back down onto the chair in resignation.

"I would have understood. I would have sulked around in a corner for a few days and moved on. I never expected anything different and I was prepared for that. But not for... not for what you did."

They're both dead silent, Dean standing, Sam sitting, and when it seems like there's nothing more to say, he makes one more, quiet confession:

"I can't even look at you right now."

Dean has been having trouble looking into the mirror ever since that night he tried to kiss Sam in the doorway. He understands all too well how his brother must be feeling.

He hears a sniffle and Sam's back on his feet again, fumbling for his already packed bag. It all happens so fast. Dean doesn't try to stop him, tracing his movements with watery green eyes, hollow like the rest of him.

"I gotta go. I must go."

The doors slam shut. Dean keeps on standing. He takes out his phone, tries to call Bobby. No answer. He sits on that cursed double bed and waits ten minutes before calling again. No answer. He dials Sam next. Up to three times. The fourth time he leaves a voicemail.

"Sam, please. I need to know you'll be okay. Just send a text or something. Please."

He waits, his hand squeezing around the amulet Sam gave him all those years ago. No messages, no calls. He falls asleep in his clothes and has nightmares for the first time in two weeks.


	14. Chapter 14

The next day he finds out that Sam was taken by the Yellow-Eyed demon.

And Dean blames himself for all of it, from beginning to end. He was the one that killed him - not with his own hands but it sure felt like they were his own hands.

If he hadn't been deceiving Sam, they wouldn't have had that fight. If they hadn't had that fight, Sam wouldn't have run away. If Sam hadn't run away, he wouldn't have been abducted and stabbed to death.

It all seemed like a scenario to some bad tragedy play, where all his lies and the failure of his choices served to deliver a neat morale at the end. But if it were a story, he could always close the book when finished and forget about the sad ending. This was reality instead, where Dean had to keep living past that sad ending and deal with the mistakes that led to it. Where all he could do was sit and cry over his brother's dead body as it lay there unmoving and grow colder every second.

The world wasn't ending fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know – bad ending is bad. But there’s another way to look at it. I mean, we all know what happens next – Dean makes a deal to get Sam back, and there’s 10 more seasons of them hunting together. The boys always find their way back to each other, after all ;)
> 
> That being said, I owe everyone a big, BIG thank you for all the feedback! (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)  
> I hope you enjoyed it ~~despite the ending~~ , see you! :*


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